Inventory

Thanksgiving the clinics close at three.
Christmas the gas station sells me coffee.
The man does not say
merry anything.

New Year’s I count backward from ten
with the television.
The ball drops.
I wash the glass.

Fourth of July the neighbors’ children
spell their names in sparklers.
The names dissolve.
I have never seen a whole name hold.

My birthday falls in a week
no one marks.
I buy a thing I need.

Easter I set a table.

The phone rings.
Someone selling something.

For a moment
my hand moves toward it—
quick.

I walk through the house.
Every room is mine.

The house does not change.
I fit it now.